Guy Kay - Tigana

"Then we'll have to drink it ourselves," Sandre said, swinging up on his horse and laughing. Baerd, who so rarely used to laugh, but who had changed since the Ember Days, began to chuckle suddenly. And then, sitting beside him on the cart as they rode out of town, so did she, listening to the two of them, feeling the clean freshness of the breeze blowing through her hair, and, as it seemed, through her heart.

It was that same day, early in the afternoon, that they came to the dell she loved and Baerd, remembering, pulled the cart off the road to let her go down to the pool and bathe. When she climbed back up neither man was laughing or amused anymore, watching the Barbadians go by.

It was the way the two of them were standing that caused the trouble, she was sure of it. But by the time she came up beside them it was already too late. It would have been mostly Baerd whose look drew their attention. Sandre in his Khardhu guise was a matter of almost complete indifference to the Barbadians.

But a merchant, a minor trader with a single cart and a second scrawny horse, who stood gazing at an army passing in the way that this one did, coldly, his head arrogantly high, not even remotely submissive or chastened let alone showing any of the fear proper to such a situation…

The language of the body, Catriana thought, could be heard far too clearly sometimes. She looked at Baerd beside her, his dark eyes fixed in stony appraisal of the company passing by. It wasn't arrogance, she decided, not just a male pride. It was something else, something older. A primitive response to this display of the Tyrant's power that he could no more hide than he could the dozen barrels of ale they carried on the cart.

"Stop it!" she whispered fiercely. But even as she did she heard one of the Barbadians bark a terse command and half a dozen of them detached from the moving column of men and horses and galloped over toward them. Catriana's mouth went dry. She saw Baerd glance over to where his bow lay in the grass. He shifted his stance slightly, to balance himself better. Sandre did the same.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Remember where we are!"

She had time for no more. The Barbadians came up to them, huge men on their horses, looking down on a man and a woman of the Palm and this gaunt, grey-haired relic from Khardhun.

"I don't like the look of your face," the leader said, staring at Baerd. The man's hair was darker than most of the others, but his eyes were pale and hard.

Catriana swallowed. This was the first time in a year they'd had a confrontation so direct with the Barbadians. She lowered her eyes, willing Baerd to be calm, to say the right things.

What she did not know, for no one who had not been there could know, was what Baerd was seeing in that moment.

Not six Barbadians on horses by a road in Certando, but as many Ygrathen soldiers in the square before his father's house long ago. So many years, and the memory still sharp as a wound from only yesterday. All the normal measures of time seemed to fall apart and blow away in moments such as this.

Baerd forced himself to avert his gaze before the Barbadian's glare. He knew he had made a mistake, knew this was a mistake he would always make if he wasn't careful. He had been too euphoric though, rushing too fast on a floodtide of emotion, seeing this marching column as dancing to the tune he and Alessan had called. But it was early yet, far too early, so much lay unknown and uncontrollable in the future. And they had to live to see that future or everything would have been wasted. Years and lives, the patient conjuring of dream into reality.

He said, eyes cast down, voice low, "I am sorry if I have offended. I was only marveling at you. We have not seen so many soldiers on the road in years."

"We moved aside to make way," Sandre added in his deep voice.

"You be silent," the Barbadian leader rasped. "If I wish to converse with servants I will inform you." One of the others sidled his horse toward Sandre, forcing him to step backward. Catriana, behind him, felt her legs grow weak. She reached out and gripped the railing of the cart; her palms were damp with fear. She saw two of the Barbadians staring at her with frank, smirking appraisal, and she was suddenly aware of how her clothing would be clinging to her body after her swim in the pond.

"Forgive us," Baerd repeated, in a muffled tone. "We meant no harm, no harm at all."

"Really? Why were you counting our numbers?"

"Counting? Your numbers? Why would I do such a thing?"

"You tell me, merchant."

"It is not so," Baerd protested, inwardly cursing himself as an amateur and a fool. After twelve years, something so clumsy as this! The situation was careening out of control, and the simple fact was that he had indeed been counting the Barbadian numbers. "We are only traders," he added. "Only minor traders."

"With a Khardhu warrior for guard? Not so minor, I would say."

Baerd blinked, and clutched his hands together deferentially. He had made a terrible mistake. This man was dangerously sharp.

"I was afraid for my wife," he said. "There have been rumors of outlaws in the south, of great unrest." Which was true. There were, in fact, more than rumors. Twenty-five Barbadians had been slaughtered in a pass. He was fairly certain Alessan had been there.

"Your wife or your goods?" one of the other Barbadians sneered. "We know which you people value more." He looked past Baerd to where Catriana stood, and there was a loose, heavy-lidded look in his face. The other soldiers laughed. Baerd quickly lowered his head again; he didn't want them to see the death that was in his eyes. He remembered that kind of laughter, the resonance of it. Where it could lead. Had led, in a square in Tigana eighteen years ago. He was silent, eyes downcast, murder in his heart, bound close with memory.

"What are you carrying?" the first Barbadian rapped out, his voice blunt as a trowel.

"Ale," Baerd said, squeezing his hands together. "Only barrels of ale for the north."

"Ale for Ferraut? You are a liar. Or a fool."

"No, no," Baerd said hastily. "Not Ferraut. We got a very good price. Eleven astins the barrel. Good enough to be worth taking all the way north. We are bound for Astibar with this. We can sell it for three times that."

Which would have been true, had he not paid twenty-three astins for each of these.

At a gesture from the leader two of the Barbadians dismounted. They cracked open one of the barrels, using their swords as levers. The pungent, earthy smell of Certandan beer surrounded them all.

The leader looked over, saw his men nod, and turned back to Baerd. There was a malicious smile on his face.

"Eleven astins a barrel? Truly a good price. So good, that even a grasping merchant will not hesitate to donate them to the army of Barbadior that defends you and your kind."

Baerd had been half expecting this. Careful to stay in character, he said, "If… if it is your desire, then yes. Would you… would you care to buy it, at only the price I paid?"

There was a silence. Behind the six Barbadians the army was still marching down the road. It had almost passed them by. He had a decent estimate of how many there were. Then the man on the horse in front of him drew his sword. Baerd heard Catriana make a small sound behind him. The Barbadian leaned forward over the neck of his horse, weapon extended, and delicately touched Baerd on his bearded cheek with the flat of his blade.

"We do not bargain," he said softly. "Nor do we steal. We accept gifts. Offer us a gift, merchant." He moved the blade a little. Baerd could feel it nicking and fretting against his face.

"Please accept… please accept this ale from us as a gift to the men of the Third Company," he said. With an effort he kept his eyes averted from the man's face.